A Little Left of Center
by Morning's First Light
Summary: Alfred has Autism. He can't speak and is easily overwhelmed by loud, sudden noises. His family does everything they can to help him, but he can't stand their expectations. This story narrates their daily lives together, for better or worse. This was started as a character study, and it grew to this. FACE family. Possible eventual romance. Warning: kinda angsty.
1. Saturday

_Hello! So, this is the brain child of not enough sleep and too much work over the summer. It will be updated irregularly, especially if no one is reading it. If you want an update, just message me and I'll get a move on. If you enjoy it, please review! I want to know what people think!_

We're in the mall. It's Saturday afternoon. I check the watch Dad got me two weeks ago –"This way you can check the time whenever you want without having to ask someone,"- and see it is two thirty PM. The people are crowding in more and more by the minute, making it hard to breathe. Mattie's holding my hand –tightly –in an attempt to keep me still and relaxed. I wish he didn't have to. I can see the tension in his jaw every time someone walks anywhere close to me, his eyes dart around to try to see triggers before they can set me off. We're nearly to the door. After that, it's just across the parking lot to the car and things will be fine. We're a few yards from the door, nearly there. We're going to make it.

We don't make it. An announcement sounds over the loudspeaker and I first freeze, then fall to the floor in classic "Duck and Cover" position. My hands clap over my ears and I scream the same thing I always scream to block out the noise, to make it go away, "That's loud!"

At least, I try to. But the words don't sound right when I say them. They sound like empty noise. Noise without meaning. I try to force my tongue to form them, but somewhere along the way, the command gets lost and it just sounds like, "Ahhhhh!"

After a moment, the announcement is over and the area is much quieter. I start to get up because now the danger is gone and I'm safe again. There are some people around us. They're staring. At me. They have the same looks they always do. Pity. Sympathy. Poorly-hidden smug satisfaction. My episode of fear is something for them to gawk at. And I know what their faces say. I know what they're thinking. I can read people really well. Just not when they're talking to me. And these people aren't talking to me. They're staring at me and pitying my parents, my brother. They're thinking about how hard our lives must be. They're patting themselves on the back because their kid isn't like me. Because their kid is normal.

There's noise, and after a moment, I recognize it as Mattie talking to me. I look at him as best I can, first at his face, but then the panic comes back and my eyes turn toward his hoodie instead. There's a big white maple leaf on it, separated down the middle by a zipper. The strings to adjust the hood hang unevenly. I reach out to fix them and he lets me because he knows I won't budge until they're fixed. I won't function until they're fixed.

"Time to go," Mattie says after I've finished. He taps my watch that Dad got for me two weeks ago. "Time to go home," he repeats, and I try to nod, but it's not as fluid as when he does it. It's a jerky motion that brings my head from its normal position to a position where my chin is touching my chest. Another jerking motion and it's back to where it started. Dad smiles. I've gotten better at responding. Better about nodding. Mattie takes my hand and leads me outside. I stare back at the people, my upper body twisted around, making my steps even more crooked than usual. They're still staring. I look at Mattie, whose gaze is focused in front of us, and see his face is red. He doesn't turn to look back at the people. He knows they're still staring. He doesn't want to see them.

We get back to the car. I try to say sorry to him for causing a scene. It sounds like a low growl. He looks back at me and my eyes immediately focus on his hoodie again. I see him smile out of the corner of my eye, though. We get in the car. I'm on the right side, in the back. Just like always. It's my seat. Doctors tell Dad I have to sit there because of the visual stim of watching what's outside go by. I have to sit here because this way Mattie's on my left. He's always on my left. It's how we are. I like looking out the window, too.

Dad hands me the wire that plugs into the radio at one end and my iPod at the other. "Music," he says. "Talk."

We've worked out a system. I listen to music a lot; I always have my iPod with me. I tell him how I'm feeling with the songs. The title of the song I put on is what I want to say, or something like it. They got me a 64 gigabyte iPod, so I could have lots of words. Mattie adds them for me. I scroll through my list of songs to find what I have to say. Mattie speaks the titles as I start the songs.

"Broken," he says, as Seether begins to filter through the speakers.

"You're not broken, Alfred. You're just different," Dad says quickly. He's said it a million times. It sounds the exact same every time.

"Perfect," Mattie says as I switch songs.

Dad smiles at me in the rear view mirror. "Exactly," he keeps smiling as he speaks, "You're perfect just as you are."

I turn my attention to the window. I didn't mean it like that. I was using sarcasm, but he doesn't get that. You can't express tone through an iPod. I switch songs.

Mattie grins out of the corner of my eye as he gives the title, "Everyday Normal Guy."

Dad's eyes crinkle around the edges as he smiles bigger, "Matthew, what have you been putting on there for him?"

"Whatever he asks for," Mattie answers, and he's used to getting defensive when talking about me, and I hear it edging into his voice. "Sorry," he says after a brief pause. "I didn't mean to get snappy with you."

They talk for a bit and I stare out the window. It's Saturday. Saturday is one of Papa's days to cook. I hope he'll make burgers. They're my favorite food. And he knows just how to get them juicy and perfect. I want to ask him to make burgers, but I don't. The words are in my head, but my mouth doesn't want to say them. I grab a book sitting between Mattie and me. It's one of my communication books. I don't like to carry it in public, or people stare more than usual. I flip it to the first page and point at a picture of Papa with his name under it. Mattie looks over and speaks for me.

"Al says 'Papa.'"

Papa looks at me in the rear view mirror. I look at his reflection for a moment before flipping hurriedly through the book. I find the picture I want and point at it.

"Dinner," Mattie reads. I flip through the book again and point at the right picture when I find it. "Burgers," Mattie reads again. Papa's reflection smiles at this.

"What do you think, Arthur?" he asks Dad.

"If that's what you want, Alfred," he answers. I scroll through my songs again, choosing the one I want.

Mattie gives me a look when it comes on, but still says, "I Want it That Way."

Dad looks at Mattie this time in the rear view, "You gave him Backstreet Boys? Oh, Mattie." I go back to looking out the window.

Later, we're at home. I'm sitting on the floor in front of the TV, watching The Avengers. My action figures are lined up in front of me, in the same order as always: Captain America, Iron Man, Hulk, Thor, Black Widow, Hawkeye, and Loki. They stand at the ready, in case danger strikes. There's a noise in the room and it's bothering me. I try to ignore it, to block it out, like they want me to, but I can't. I try for a whole minute, but I just can't take it so I pause the movie and try to shout "Shh!" at the noise, but it comes at like a hiss. I turn around and see Dad is typing on his laptop at his living room desk. I try shushing him again, but he doesn't respond or stop. I go over and grab his hands, shushing him again.

He looks at me and I try my hardest to hold his gaze. It becomes too much after thirty-three seconds –I checked the watch that Dad got me two weeks ago –and my gaze quickly drops to his sweater vest. He smiles out of the corner of my eye as I study the stitches in his vest. It's green, and matches his eyes. I figure since it matches his eyes it's as good as looking him in the eye. His vest doesn't look at me with… expectations. Dad didn't for a while after my diagnosis either, but he does now. I've made a lot of progress in the last year, my doctors say, so now he has hope and expectations. I hate expectations. I hate when people look at me with expectations in their eyes. I hate disappointing them. But, even more, I hate when people look at me without expectations. When they just don't expect anything of me because they think I'm a hopeless case. The few mainstream classes I've taken have had teachers that do that. They see how difficult I am and they just kind of give up on me. Or worse, they hate me. It's hard to be hated because sometimes you have to hate back, and hating is very exhausting. When I had teachers that hated me, I came home tired and made Dad worry. I make him worry every day when I go to school now. I don't know why he's so worried, but I know he is because it shows in his eyes. It makes me worry about him and I end up worrying all day and then I don't get anything done and then my grades go down and then my teachers call home about my grades and then they hate me because no matter how many times they explain the material, I still don't get it. And it's hard to be hated. I don't think I'll go to school this week. I think I'll stay home and help out around the house to make things easier for Dad.

There's noise near me. Dad is talking to me. I try looking at him again, but I end up focusing on his eyebrows instead of his eyes. He knows where I'm actually looking, but he smiles anyway. Because I've met his expectations. I study his eyebrows –they're rather large –as he talks.

"Is my typing too noisy?" he asks. I nod, my head jerking down toward my chest, then coming back up; my eyes not moving from his eyebrows. "Would you like me to stop?" his voice is filled with expectations, and I hate that. I nod again. "Can you say stop?" he voices one of his expectations and I know I'm going to disappoint him, but I try anyway because not trying would be even more disappointing.

"Stop," I say, but I can tell it wasn't quite right because even though he's smiling and his eyes are crinkling simply because I tried, I can see a very brief flicker of disappointment in his eyes that's always there when I fail something.

"Alright, I'll stop. Finish your movie," he says and points at the TV. I return to my spot and continue watching.

And even though I've seen this movie at least once a day every day since I got the DVD –the day of its release –and I saw it in theaters five times –once with the whole family, once with just my parents because Mattie was at hockey practice, once with just Dad because Papa was at work, once with just Papa because Dad was with Mattie, and once with just Mattie because he wanted to do something special for our birthday –I still pay very careful attention to all the details. If I could speak properly, I could quote this entire movie by heart. Complete with timing, inflection, and tone. Sometimes, at night, I dream the movie and it's right, down to the last detail. I wish Dad knew how much I remembered about it so he would know I could remember things, even though I forget the things he tells me and I leave my lunch at home a lot and my shoes are often untied when I come home because they got undone in gym and I never fixed them because I figured I'd do it later. I wish he knew about how much I can remember and not just how much I forget.

Dad is driving me to Speech later. I'm sitting in the back seat again, even though he insisted I sit up front because he doesn't want to feel like a chauffeur. I always sit in the back. He's trying to get me to talk; to practice what my Speech Therapist has been working on with me. I'm ignoring him. I don't want to talk. We stop at a red light and he looks at me in the mirror. I look at his reflection. His eyes look like gemstones. Or moss. He doesn't like it like when I touch moss. He says it's dirty, but he also doesn't stop me because he's happy I'm touching anything at all. He's making noise. It's my name. He's talking to me.

"Do you want to put on some music?" he asks, and his eyes have those expectations in them again. I sigh but nod and he hands me the wire. I plug in my iPod and start scrolling. I don't want to talk. He asks me a question, "Are you looking forward to Speech?" I scroll through the songs and choose one from Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog. He pauses to listen for a minute, then agrees, "A man's got to do what a man's got to do." He pauses before continuing, "I know it's tedious, but I think it's really helping you. You've progressed so much in the last year…"

Realizing he's off on one of his Expectations Rants, I look out the window and listen to the music. I love musicals. I'd love to be in one, but I can't dance. Or act. Or sing. Or talk. Or deal with the constant light changes and the volume of the music. And people don't like me. If I really wanted to, I bet I could get into the musical at my school. But Special Needs kids are never cast as leads. And I don't want to be ensemble. Ensemble is for the losers who aren't good enough.

I check the watch Dad got me two weeks ago and figure that if the Speech appointment only takes half an hour, and there's not a lot of traffic on the way home, I'll be able to watch The Avengers one more time. Dad is talking to me again.

"Alfred, you look upset. Are you ok?" he asks me, his gaze rapidly shifting from the road to me in the mirror to the road to me. I put on a song by Three Days Grace.

It takes him a few moments, but then he asks, "'Last to Know?' What does that mean?"

I don't bother explaining. I know he wouldn't get it.


	2. Sunday

_**Hello, hello! Please read the notes at the bottom!**_

If I behave well at Speech, Dad takes me to the comic book store the next day. I did well enough yesterday that we're going today. We pull up in front of my favorite comic book store, one called _Comics and Such_, and Dad says something to Mattie about me, but I'm not paying attention because I need to get inside. I unbuckle as fast as I can and run in without waiting for them, something Dad is always reminding me not to do. I push through the door and a little bell rings. I knew it was coming, but it still bothers me and I say, "That's loud," so the guy behind the counter knows. He recognizes me and says hello. I walk past him and over to the huge shelves of comic books, searching for a Captain America one I don't have yet. Dad thinks my obsession with superheroes is silly, but he lets me get new stuff anyway. And he always listens when I talk about them. Papa watches the movies with me pretty often, though he likes Thor better than Captain America for some reason. I can't imagine why. And Mattie reads comics, too sometimes, but he prefers Captain Canuck and Guardian. He's so Canadian, it's like he wasn't meant to be born in America. Like we weren't meant to be twins. It's weird. Anyway, Dad and Mattie come up behind me, leaving just enough distance that it isn't a problem. Dad leans a bit over my shoulder to see the shelf.

"I think you already have all of these, Alfred. Maybe try a different superhero," he says, but he had scarcely got the words out before my head is whipping toward him and I'm shouting, "No!" at him. Only it comes out as more of a "Nah!" and even though I just shouted at him, he still has this light in his eyes because I just spoke unprompted and I'm getting better with my pronunciation. I know when we go home he'll tell Papa all about it, but right now I don't care and I just want to find some more Captain America. I go back to examining the books lined up before me and spot one I don't have yet. The cover has a glossy picture of Cap running into battle, his shield at the ready and the light of guns firing shining in his eyes. I'd like to be just like him one day- big and strong and brave and heroic. Sometimes, when I'm alone, I pretend I'm a big hero and people love me and I can give speeches to kids about being great and inspire them to make the world a better place. But then I remember I'm just me- a boring high school student from a small town in the middle of nowhere that can't even tell my fathers to stay out of my room, much less inspire heroism. Heck, I can't even help Mattie feel less stressed. He carries it all in his shoulders, and I can see it when he does. His shoulders are always up closer to his jaw than they should be and he looks like he'll just crawl inside his hoodie like a turtle and stay there for a while, just so he can escape everything. I wish I didn't have to make things worse for him.

Dad making sounds gets my attention and I focus on his unruly blond hair. "Is that the one you want?" he asks me, and I nod, holding the book close to my chest. He smiles and says okay and starts to turn to go the counter before he catches himself and turns back toward me, returning to the routine. I go over to the display case by the front window. It's filled with all kinds of figurines and statuettes and other collectibles of different superheroes. I press my nose to the glass and stare at them all, searching for my favorite one, a Captain America statuette that has his costume from the movie and a base that reads "Captain America: The First Avenger" between his feet. His shield is shiny and I think it's real metal, but I'm not sure. It's not in its usual place, and I know they moved it just to be mean to me, and I turn and yell at the guy behind the counter because how dare he do that to me, and Dad and Mattie rush over to me to try to get me to calm down. Dad tries talking to me, but I'm not listening, and I quickly start stimming to try to make things okay, but Dad gets embarrassed when I have a fit in public and tries to keep my arms from flapping too much, but I hate being touched, so I pull away and I know he's at his wit's end, but I can't care too much right now because everything in the world is wrong, but then Mattie says my name and when I look at him, he's pointing at the statuette, sitting in the wrong part of the case, but still there. And things are not at all perfect or fine, but they're also not as bad as they had been. I smile at him, though I know it's crooked, and he smiles back, but this time he's the one avoiding my eyes. I wonder why he's doing that.

When we pay for the comic book, Dad keeps apologizing to the guy behind the counter, though I'm not really sure why since he's the one that messed things up for me on purpose. As we walk out to the car, Dad hands me the comic book without saying a word. He doesn't ask me to talk at all on the way home.

We're in the car on the way to some restaurant Papa and Mattie want to check out because it's French or something. I stare out the window at the passing scenery, and I know Dad is prattling on about his expectations of me while we're at the restaurant, but I'm not listening. Papa is driving, and Dad is taking this opportunity to practically twist all the way around in his seat and face me- an action he's told me many times is dangerous. I don't think he knows I'm not listening. Usually, when he knows I'm not listening, he'll keep trying to get my attention, but he's not doing that. Maybe he's just finally used to talking to the side of my face. We pass a farm, and I sit up a bit to see the horses they have outside. There's a beautiful brown one that's off to the side, away from the others. His head is bowed and he's chewing on the yellowing grass beneath his hooves. He doesn't seem to care that the others are avoiding him or that the setting sun is leaving his shadow long and somewhat misshapen. I've always wanted to be a cowboy. A real rough 'n' tumble horse rider that played by nobody's rules but his own. I could save beautiful damsels in distress that had been tied to railroad tracks by evil oil tycoons with long, curly mustaches. I could be a brilliant hero like in the movies.

We pull up to the restaurant, which looks very flashy on the outside. It has pretty stained glass windows in the front and nicely trimmed little trees lining the front walkway that leads to the door. Papa parks the car, and I get out and start heading for the door as fast as I can. I hate parking lots. There's too much you have to focus on and they're often loud. So I try to spend as little time in them as possible. Dad shouts something behind me, but I don't catch what it is. He keeps shouting, but Mattie is the one that grabs me around the middle after running to catch up. Playing hockey has made his legs really strong and he's the only one who can keep up with me. As we stop, a car rushes by, only a foot away from us. The wind he creates ruffles my hair and I feel Mattie's hair brush my cheek. I don't like being touched and his hair makes my skin itchy, so I twist out of his grip as fast as I can. Dad and Papa catch up to us as I slip away from Mattie, shouting at him. He looks hurt, but I can't worry about that for too long because Dad grabs my wrist and pulls me to the side. Papa and Mattie go over to the front door to wait for us, and I watch Papa say something I can't hear to Mattie as he squeezes his shoulder. Mattie shrugs it off, but I don't see what happens next because Dad steps into my line of sight and blocks my view. I stare at his messy blond hair. It bounces a bit as he talks.

"Alfred," he starts, "that was very dangerous. I've told you a million times not to run through parking lots. And you know the rule about looking before you cross the street. And the one about staying with us. I'm very disappointed in you."

I hear him, but I don't listen through most of what he says. But when he reaches the end –and uses that word –my heart starts racing. It feels like it could explode out of my chest at any moment, then roll away from me into the path of one of the many cars that's circling around the parking lot. And whatever it rolls in front of will run it over and splatter it everywhere and then I'll no longer have a heart. And then I would die. I don't want to die. To keep my heart in, I put my arms over my chest and hold on tight. My eyes snap up from my chest to meet Dad's eyes for a moment before settling on his forehead. I know I'm panicking. I can feel it building in me –my chest is tightening and no air is getting in, so I start breathing deeper and faster and it's not helping and I fear again that I'm going to die. My favorite Captain America hoodie suddenly feels too tight and restrictive, and I claw at it to try to get some breathing room. This is the end, I'm sure. This time, I won't be able to go on. I've messed up too huge this time. I'm dead.

Dad's hands are suddenly on mine, prying them from my clothes. His hands are warm and it makes me aware that my hands are clammy and shaking. He holds onto them for a moment that lasts three eternities before letting go. I start flapping my hands and the movement calms me down. The air resistance feels good against my palms, so I go for another minute or so before Dad speaks.

"There. All better. Things are okay, Alfred. Things are okay," he says softly in his soothing voice.

The meltdown is avoided before it begins. Dad breathes a sigh, and I do the same after a moment. He doesn't expect it, but I lean into him. I need a hug right now. My arms coil around him in a grip I know is too tight and my face burrows into his shoulder. He's shorter than me; a fact I'm usually quite proud of, but am currently bothered by. To lean on his shoulder, I have to curve my back in a weird way, but I can ignore it for now. I just really need a hug.

He combs his fingers through the hair at the back of my head –an action that has soothed me since I was very young. And I let him this time because he's helping me. And I could use some comfort right now.

We're sitting at a table in the restaurant. I'm tapping the table because the motion helps me relax, and it's very stressful in here. The lights are only half as bright as lights usually are, and it's making my head hurt. There are a lot of people in here, talking their heads off. My back is to the door, which I hate because I have to turn all the way around to see the door when people come in. Dad doesn't understand why I need to watch the door, but I do. Just in case some sort of bad person comes in. Like, I just don't want anything to catch me by surprise, so I have to watch the door for when people go in and out. But Dad is trying to break me of that habit, so he took the seat I would usually have. He tells me for the fifth time to stop tapping, so I do. But the lighting makes my head hurt worse and someone nearby keeps pronouncing their S's as a sharp hiss that hurts my ears, so I shut my eyes and clamp my hands over my ears, bending forward to block out as much as I can. I only last there for a moment before Dad is sitting me up a bit. He says something about my hair and food, but I can't hear him completely and I'm not listening much anyway.

It's still too loud, so I hum some song I can't remember the words to. Dad sings it sometimes, but I don't know what song it is. He puts his finger to his lips to signal that I should be quiet, but he doesn't say a word. He knows talking will only make it worse. I stop humming, but the noise gets worse. I look at Papa, who's seated across from me, his brow furrowed as he looks at me. He looks so much older when his face does that, and I feel guilty for making him old. I look to Mattie, who's seated to my left, and he's looking at me, too. His face looks like a younger version of Papa's, but it ages him tremendously as well. I feel guilty about that, too. I realize that all of them are looking at me, which makes me nervous. I don't like being the center of attention unless I'm purposely doing something to make people pay attention to me. But when people just stare at me like this, I get really nervous and the feeling like I can't breathe comes back. As if he knows that, Mattie looks at me and asks, "Want to go outside?" I nod quickly and we stand up. I walk ahead of him to the door, but I hear Papa behind us say something about being out after paying. I don't really care either way.

I rush outside into the cool night air, not caring I pushed someone out of the way as I exited the building. I sit beside one of the small trees by the sidewalk and watch my breath come out in tiny puffs. It's cool for October, but Mattie and I still refuse to wear proper coats, despite Dad and Papa's constant attempts to make us. Mattie refuses because he claims his Canadian blood keeps him immune to the cold. I refuse because when I wear heavy coats, especially when I have to carry my backpack, I feel like I can't breathe at all. Besides, I like my Captain America hoodie. It's designed to look like the varsity jackets the football players at school wear, but instead of a school logo, it has Cap's shield. And the buttons are his shield, too, but in gold. Mattie got it for me for our birthday, and I wore it as soon as Dad would let me. It's fleece-y on the inside, and that combined with my size keeps me warm. I'm bigger than Mattie. Stronger, too. But he's more coordinated and better at a lot of things. Like sports. And writing. And talking to people. He's a pretty great guy, but people don't give him enough credit. I feel bad for him.

Mattie sits beside me and points up at the night sky, where small points of light twinkle silently. He starts pointing out the names of constellations I'd memorized long ago, but I'm not really listening and he knows it. I'm much more interested in the moon, which is full tonight, and shining softly down on us. Mattie goes quiet for a minute before asking, "Who was the first man on the moon?"

I tell him it was Neil Armstrong, but the words, like all the others I try for, end up broken and only half pronounced. He smiles anyway.

"Right. Neil Armstrong. And who was the second?" he holds up two fingers to illustrate his point.

And I tell him it was Buzz Aldrin. And the words are wrong again.

"Yup, Buzz Aldrin. And who was the one no one remembers because he had to stay in the shuttle and didn't get to actually walk on the moon?"

I know it's Michael Collins, and he knows I know because we play this game a lot. So even when my words aren't words and are just meaningless noises, he still nods his head.

"Michael Collins. And what was the name of the mission they were on?" he asks, counting off the questions on his one hand. It's always the same questions, always in the same order.

I tell him it was Apollo 11, and he smiles.

"Your pronunciation is getting better, you know. Apollo 11. And what government program was in charge of Apollo 11 and is still in charge of the Space Program?"

My words are unintelligible, but he still understands somehow.

"Correct. The National Aeronautics and Space Administration, or NASA," he says. We've finished the usual questions he asks. "And what do you want to be when you grow up?" he asks, because there's always a bonus question that's different each time.

I think for a moment before answering. There are three things, I tell him. An astronaut, a cowboy, and a hero.

He smiles again and tells me, "There are lots of ways to be a hero, you know. Astronauts and cowboys are heroes. You could be the first interplanetary cowboy, if you wanted."

I laugh at the ridiculous image that comes into my head of me in space, a cowboy hat sitting on top of my astronaut helmet as I do a spacewalk on the International Space Station, a lasso twirling weightlessly above my head. But he's talking again and I'm caught off guard.

"You know, you're already a hero. Not everyone can handle the kind of stuff you do and still be happy. It's really impressive," he tells me. His eyes are on my face now, but I stay facing the moon. I don't say anything back to him.

There's nothing heroic about me. Heroes save people and make the world a better place. I don't do either of those things. I just survive and try to face another day. There's nothing heroic about just surviving.

We're home after the restaurant fiasco, and it's very quiet. Everyone else is asleep. Mattie's room is next to mine, and I don't hear anything coming from in there, so I know he's not texting this friend of his that he's gotten rather interested in lately. Besides, he has school in the morning, just like me. Papa is asleep downstairs because he has to get up earlier than anyone else to go to work at the restaurant he cooks at, a fancy five-star one where he's head chef, and he doesn't want to wake anyone. Dad is sleeping in his and Papa's room, which is across the hall from mine and Mattie's. I know he's asleep because even though he works from home most days –the newspaper he writes for is pretty lax about that kind of thing –he still ends up real tired, thanks to me. So he's always asleep by ten o'clock.

I check the watch that Dad got me two weeks ago –it has a button on it that makes it light up when you press it –and see it is already 1:27 in the morning. My stomach hurts just thinking about how I have to get up for school in a few hours, even though I haven't slept a wink. I have awful insomnia and it makes me want to bang my head against a wall, an action Dad has scolded me for many times.

I finally feel like I'm starting to drift to sleep when it starts. There's a loud bang outside that rattles my windows and makes all my muscles tense up. After a brief moment, there is a bright flash and the rain starts hammering against the glass. My window is right above my bed and I can see the wind whipping around the branches of the tree in my front yard. Some are getting dangerously close to me, and it makes me nervous. I don't like thunderstorms. I always think about what kind of things could be lurking in the dark, the sound of their footsteps covered up by the sound of the clapping thunder. Their forms hidden in darkness, exposed only during cracks of lightning that light up the earth brighter than high noon in the summertime, only to return to the darkness, their memories brushed away by any witnesses of their existence. The tree makes me nervous, too. It's old and the branches seem looser and looser with each storm. I know any day now, they'll snap off and break through my window and crush me. And I'll gasp for air and try to scream for help, but the branches will cut off my air supply and muffle my voice and I'll be helpless and die right there before my family even knows what happened.

I know I'm probably being irrational. Maybe. But I don't much care right now because the rain is coming down harder and the thunder is getting louder. One particularly forceful clap shakes the house to its foundation and I scream. I don't like the creatures that could be lurking out there, but I like the noise even less. My hands clamp over my ears faster than the lightning outside and I keep screaming at the top of my voice, trying to block out the sound. Because when _I_ make sounds, it's ok. When there are other sounds, I don't like it at all. Loud, sudden noises make me nervous. I have no idea what might be causing them and if it's dangerous. Besides, it hurts. So I try to block it out by yelling, "That's loud!" but it never comes out sounding right, and instead it just seems like senseless shouting. Another clap comes, shaking the glass of my window, and I scream again because it's loud and because I'm sure this is the end. I'm about to die at the hands of the Thunder Monsters and the tree outside, in pain until the very end because of the noise. I brace myself for death, my hands not leaving my ears.

Somewhere far off, my door opens and someone walks in. He comes over to my bed and sits beside me, looking out the window at the tree there. Another boom of thunder comes, forcing my hands to hold my ears tighter and my voice to rip raggedly from my chest once more. The screaming is leaving my throat raw. The man beside me gently grabs one of my wrists and pries my hand from my head.

"Why don't you come to my room to get away from the tree?" he asks, his voice flavored with an English accent. It's Dad. I rise as he does, not needing to actually accept the offer because I always do. This is the routine. He leads the way back to his room, where I crawl into the bed with him.

I lay on Papa's side of the bed, the smell of his shampoo lingers on his pillow and every breath I take in is scented with roses and some sort of manly smell that you only find in soap. Dad lies on his side, facing me, and opens his arms wide. I move closer and allow him to envelope me in his tea-scented warmth. His arms gently wrap around my torso, and my head is tucked under his chin, despite the fact that I'm taller than him. His grip on me is strong, but not forceful or restrictive. I can move any time and any way I choose. When loud booms of thunder sound, his arms squeeze tighter around me, putting pressure on my body that's nothing but comforting. After the third thunderous explosion that leaves the windows shaking and the house creaking, he mutters something quietly about a weighted blanket, then tells me to go back to sleep.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but I can't fall asleep until he starts stroking the hair at the back of my neck. His fingers twirl around the short strands there, creating some kind of complex pattern, the movement soothing me to sleep. This is all part of the routine.

_**Hello, me again. I just want to start by saying thank you to everyone that favorited/reviewed/PMed me about this story. I'm so happy you all like it so much! Anyway, I've decided that I'm going to use the space down here to explain some things about what happens in each chapter, so that everyone can understand better. All following notes such as these will be much shorter! OK? Let's begin!**_

_**To start, Alfred mentions "stimming" in the first chapter and he stims a few times in this one. Stimming is a common symptom of Autism Spectrum Disorders (ASD). It is short for "Self-Stimulation" which is also known as "Self-Regulating" and it is repetitive movements that acts as a method of calming the person performing them. They are generally sensory-seeking behaviors. Common ones include hand flapping and spinning their own body or objects in circles. Unfortunately, self-harming ones, such as hitting oneself are fairly common as well.**_

_**Al can't hold eye contact. This is another common symptom of ASD. Some people don't hold it because the part of the brain that picks up on and acts on social expectations doesn't pick up on or act on this one. Some don't hold it because it causes anxiety or paranoia. Others don't hold it because it is physically painful for them. And still others don't hold it because of some other, unique reason.**_

_**Touching Al is a big no-no. This is because of another common symptom/ "companion disorder" to ASD, which is Sensory Integration Disorder, otherwise known as Sensory Processing Disorder (SPD). This means that Al's brain (and the brains of other people with the disorder) doesn't process sensations right. For instance, a Neurotypical (NT) person (one who does not have any sort of disability or Special Need) might be able to sit in the restaurant in this chapter and be fine. But when Al does, he can't block out all of the different sounds, sights, smells, tastes, and other sensations surrounding him, which causes extreme discomfort and anxiety.**_

_**Finally, I want to clear up what Al's diagnosis is. He has Classic Autism (an ASD), Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) –this partially accounts for his tendency to walk/run away from his family and for his thoughts to often be ramble-y –and Anxiety. Additionally, he is nonverbal.**_


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